A Chaos Within

(Chaos: This week let’s embrace disorder and it’s creative power.)

There is this moment before the heartache. When you know it’s coming. It isn’t there yet. You don’t even know why you think it’s forthcoming but you feel it in your bones. Like your soul has felt it coming from miles away.

This moment before the pain is about to hit you and you know it will devastate you. It hasn’t arrived yet. But you know it will. And you know it will open the wounds again. The wounds of decade that took centuries to heal.

You prepare yourself beforehand. You are sure of its factuality. So there is this night, where you lay on bed and you don’t really know why your heart is sad. Neither do you know why you want to cry. But you do.

And then all of a sudden there is this moment of realisation that this is you mourning for what’s about to become of your heart. Which is already hanging through the gallows waiting for the final call to its execution. The strings are cut one by one with which it hangs firm and it slowly looses grip. And you know it’s about to fall. It hasn’t fallen yet. But you know it’s about to. You already know. And there isn’t one damn thing you can do about it. It’s inevitable.

It will come like a tide of the ocean that slowly builds. The more it gets closer the more ferocious it becomes, and you know you are going to fucking drown. You try to save breaths, prepping yourself for the impact. But you know no matter how well you’ve prepared yourself, the tide is going to come and it will break you. Like beads off a pearl necklace; You will spill. All the pieces of yourself that you put together one by one all this time will spill…just like that. Like they were never stringed together so tenuously to begin with. Like they had always been so haphazardly splattered across the floor.

Though none of that has happened yet. But you feel it coming and you know it will happen. So this night where you are trying to make sense of why you still can’t find peace? This is the calm within the storm. Where you know the storm will soon reach the core of you and you will be blown to smithereens.

And so, this is you; grieving.

Let’s Make A Change

(WPC: The SunShine )

“Let me tell you something: no one is going to look at you, broken and shattered 
and think -
damn, you are beautiful.
No one is going to come pick up your broken pieces off the floor and
 assemble them into a beautiful whole.

Hell,
 you won’t even look at yourself and think – 
I made broken look beautiful.

You know why?

Because all those writers lied to you.

Yes, 
all those with their poems of scraped knuckles and 
blood dripping down chins, 
pomegranate songs and loves that ripped through you like 
hurricanes.

Liars.

So you and I, 
we are going to make a plan.

You are not going to romanticize days when your brain tells you to smash that mirror,
You are not going to romanticize the lover who doesn’t understand you 
but still writes about you.

Here is what you are going to romanticize instead:
You are going to romanticize the first day of spring,
Its gentle hands all over your body,
Lifting you up until you are as light as a feather.

You are going to romanticize the tea and honey kind of love,
No hurricanes, 
but sunshine that builds you up from within,
That helps you make it through the worst days.

You are going to romanticize gentle hands of a friend 
in yours,
Telling you that it is going to be okay.

Because it is.

And don’t trust poets, 
we’re no good,
 we love pretending that our jagged edges tantamount to a beautiful disaster, but in reality – 
there isn’t nothing beautiful about shaky hands holding a cigarette and 
empty eyes staring at the cracks in the walls.

You know what is beautiful, instead?

The days when you can look at yourself in the mirror and smile, 
scars and all.
Music that makes your soul flow like a river, 
books that offer comfort, 
families flocking together like overgrown birds to keep you safe and warm,
 friends that give you strength when you can find none, 
lovers who make you laugh through tears.

Baby, 
from now on 
you are going to romanticize healing;
Honey dripping down your fingertips,
August nights that stick to your skin, the day you find your purpose, 
long car rides and singing so loud that no one can shut you up now.

Bad news: 
no one is coming to save you.

Good news: 
you can save yourself.”
– Lana Rafaela (via wnq-writers.tumblr.com)

( Daily Prompt: Millions )

You There

It’s in the way she moves,
Softly, firmly, quietly,
Like she doesn’t wish to be spotted.
Slipping through cracks,
And disappearing into the crowd.

It’s in the way she laughs,
So ordinary, so familiar,
Yet a contradiction to her eyes.

Her eyes, so profound-
Seemingly an abysmal nothingness,
Yet containing everything.
Everything that needs to be known about her.

(Daily Prompt: Flattery Radical Authenticity )

October Is Here.

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Wow, I can’t believe it’s been an year! I wrote this following poem last October but never got around to sharing it. So I thought it’s only appropriate now that another October is here, to post this as an Ode to this month of dying beauty. It’s also a testament to how far I’ve come as a writer and most importantly feeling comfortable enough to share my work with the world. It brings back all kind of nostalgia to think I couldn’t share this last year but now I’m ready to own my writings and the writer in me. So without further due here it is.
_________________________

October is here and September is gone,
while November is soon to come.

The days turn to nights and nights into days,
While I wait for your return.

Standing on the threshold of our dreams,
I stand gazing upon the autumn trees.

The crisp air swooshes by me,
And leaves filled with color fall upon my feet.

I melt into the October sky,
I reflect how so many months have since passed by,
while I wait with my tears all dried,
And coffee turned cold.

The morning sun peeks through the autumn trees,
Solemn air mourns and weeps.
I need your warmth to save me,
From the cold dark nights that are soon to embrace me.

October is here, but not you.
Not yet.

Maybe November, maybe December.
Or maybe in January February.
Someday you will return,
Whether it’s March, April, June or July.

I will wait for you forever,
Even through August and September.

And then October will come again,
Bringing back memories of the day you left.
Leaving behind a flesh of heaving weeping mess,
Stranded on the doorway tracing your footsteps.

October is here again, but not you.
Not yet.

( Nostalgia )

Heart On Fire

“Say it”, I said to him like I wanted it.

“Say what?” He asked like he knew exactly what I was talking about but choose to ask anyway just to stall the inevitable.

“You know what! C’mon free yourself from these chains. The only person you are holding down is yourself at this point. Exempt yourself from this burden.” I said with pastoral face but with a violent frenzy brewing inside me that I didn’t let surface. That threatened to destroy everything in its wake.

He was looking everywhere but at me. His eyes gazing somewhere way past my face. He pursed his lips together and stood there quiet and contemplating for a minute or two. To me it felt like those final moments where your life flashes in front of your eyes before you are hit. I swear in those moments the air between us grew hundred folds heavier. I felt it’s choke-hold around my throat as I struggled to keep a steady breath.

“I don’t love you anymore.” Five words escaped his lips. Rolled through his tongue, covered the distance between us and stabbed me right in the middle of my chest. I took a sharp intake of air as I felt the impact send surge through my body.

(Ripples. Flood. Tide.
Thunder. Riot. Chaos.
Mayhem. Turmoil. Grief.)

With that he threw his shackles away, set himself free.
And now there I stood: chained.

“A man’s heart is a wretched, wretched thing. It isn’t like a mother’s womb. It won’t bleed. It won’t stretch to make room for you.”- Khaled Hosseini, A Thousand Splendid Suns.

//Just a story of a boy who never really loved her//


________________

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( Here and Now )

Rain and Reflections

(WPC: Mirror)

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She was sitting on the chair that barely fit her balcony, her feet perched on the damp rusted railing. It had been raining since morning. She was onto her sixth cigarette and her first glass of whiskey, befuddled about whether or not she liked the rain anymore. Rain drops slipping down the glass window like their words that used to slip down her heart. Effortlessly. Some words used to scratch and claw at her throat as she would try to swallow them whole, like gulping down warm beer. Some words were like silk being dragged across thorns. Agonizing.

Her loneliness. That emptiness. That’s why she smoked. To fill those empty crevices that people left, with toxins. A splendid metaphoric reminder of how they took away her pieces and left her with nothing in return. Not that she wanted anything in return. Or maybe just love? Only love. Oh maybe she was asking for far too much, that silly girl. Who could have given her love? She was one glass of bourbon and one line of cocaine away from death. Hanging on to life by a thin string of her loneliness. That stupid girl.

Back to rain, so she kind of loved rain. It was an excellent accomplice to her demise. At least it was there as she cried. A perfect muse, to mask the tears.

But she kind of hated the rain, it reminded her of her solitary confinement within her own self. The way it would cover her feet with mud reminding her of how unclean her soul was. Fuck, she needed to drink more. She needed to drown her soul clean, even if it meant baptizing herself in poison. Rain was too pure for her. She was too contaminated to be cleaned by something so pristine. Maybe gasoline was a better option. Or even better, absinthe. She was meant for things like absinthe. Or rather things like absinthe were meant for her. That was the only thing that could handle the mourning in her every breath. Everything else was too feeble for her prowliness and too languid to supplement her solitude.

She was sitting on the chair, her legs crossed that once used to wrap around sheets so damn perfectly, her hair that once used to be gripped with conviction, her eyes that once used to reflect constellations, her lips that once used to bleed with passion. Now, everything seemed senile in that deafening silence that surrounded her. So she just smoked some toxins and drank some poison, and just hoped for the suffering to seep out of her being, pore by pore.

Let Me Show You 

(WPC:Rare )

A Rare Plant


Give me your broken heart that barely beats, the scars on it sometimes still bleed, some wounds still fresh and open.

Give it to me, I’ll love it into healing until the scars turn into stars, until your beat starts to pick up pace. If nobody has done it yet, let me show you what’s it like to love you. 

Let me show you how you can love a sun, and feel it’s warmth without getting burned. How you can love a fading star and feel it’s light brighten up the world.

How you can love the ocean and feel the beauty in its raging waves. How you can love the shore even though it sends the ocean away.

And how you can love the moon and be its companion, although the howling wolf loves it just as much too.

Let me show you what’s it like to love you. 

Pain & I

Weekly Photo Challenge

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Maybe my pain has found nirvana, it’s ultimate resting place. It’s never really gone, it can never be truly gone but after crashing into me… inside me so many times, over and over it has probably found its place. I hope it stays. I still feel it there floating around my ribcage, discreetly hiding. It’s not like I don’t expect it to resurface and claim my heart again but I do expect it to be nicer to me. I do expect it to be kind. I do expect it to make me stronger. I have a weapon against it ready though; my words. That’s the only thing I have. I will turn my pain into beautiful poetic chains and hang it on the walls of my diaphragm. I will let everyone know how these scars were made. Maybe pain and I can work together, to each other’s advantage. Maybe we have reached an agreement. It can have a piece of me from time to time and I will weave it into words. Maybe we can make this work. In fact there is no other way, I’m sure it will work, Pain and I.